


Arrowhead Stadium

by LastScorpion



Category: Smallville
Genre: Crossover, Drama, First Time, Futurefic, M/M, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-04
Updated: 2007-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 05:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastScorpion/pseuds/LastScorpion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prequel to "Rich Man's Darling" and will make a little more sense if you read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrowhead Stadium

## Arrowhead Stadium

by LastScorpion

[]()

* * *

Arrowhead Stadium  
by LastScorpion  
a prequel to Rich Man's Darling  
(Ranlynn wanted to see that "took him home and made him mine" thing.) 

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, and I don't intend any disrespect or insult to the people and/or corporations who do. 

A million thanks to imsanehonest and ligiaelena for the betas! 

Warning: Not for use by persons under seventeen. Do not concentrate and inhale vapors. As with any fanfic, if you are pregnant or nursing a baby, or may become pregnant, consult a physician. 

696969696969696969696969696969696969696969696969 

" _That_ went well." 

Mercy's snort of suppressed laughter was a triumph of sorts. It had been a real clusterfuck of a day. Lex took his triumphs where he could. 

Arrowhead Stadium lay in ruins. So did his plan to destroy That Fucking Alien and frame That Fucking Lunatic for it. His best bomb yet had been used by That Fucking Clown, and if The Joker (or at least his recognizable corpse) couldn't be found, Lex was going to have a _very_ hard time avoiding the blame. 

"Call in LuthorCorp Search and Rescue. Make it look good. Priorities are The Joker, public relations, and Superman. In that order." 

"Yessir." Mercy got on the phone and made it happen. Lex pulled on his leather gloves and headed out onto the debris field. 

Football fans and football players wandered the area, stunned and bleeding. Lex organized some of the uninjured into an ad hoc search and rescue party, just to have something to do. The route he'd walked in by was a good way out to the relatively intact parking lot; he sent people back, carrying the wounded, and recruited more muscle as he worked his way in towards the epicenter of the fight. 

The fourth broken slab of reinforced concrete that they turned over was the jackpot. The Joker scurried out from under it like a roach, and Sharks nose tackle Arlo Bell took him down in a heartbeat. 

"Excellent," Lex commented. "Sit on him, would you?" He called Mercy. "We have The Joker here. Send a team to secure him. Belle Reve, I think." He didn't acknowledge Mercy's affirmative, his attention caught by a flash of red beneath another slab. "Gentlemen?" Lex called, and his motley assortment of followers (barring the athletes still crushing Batman's rival beneath their mighty muscular butts) came over and pushed where he told them to. 

They first revealed an improbably placed air pocket containing four children and an old woman, all alive; Lex's temporary minions helped them out to safety just in time; the slab fractured, and the stream of blood that had first drawn his attention turned to a sheet, flowing out from beneath the concrete and steel that had just collapsed on its pivot point. The blood had the hint of greenish-black ashiness to it that made Lex excited to know exactly the state of its source. He hurried to position his men to hoist the rubble up so he could see. 

Yes! Superman, broken and bleeding. Lex would, of course, never forgive The Joker for taking this opportunity away from him, but the joy of seeing his enemy crushed was still very great indeed. 

"Oh, I'll take care of Superman," Lex purred, when his helpers wanted to know what to do about the so-called Man of Steel. "You better keep working; there are plenty of people who still need your help." They left. 

Lex hopped down into his enemy's crater-grave and gloated. Certain that no one was around to see, he gave in to a childish impulse and kicked the carcass of his most hated foe. 

Much to his surprise, the corpse opened its eyes. They were bloodshot, with a horrible overlay of green and black among the red. 

"Lex," the body rasped. The eyes closed again; the chest heaved once with breath and then was still. He knew him. Luthor smiled to think that Superman's dying word was his name! 

The eyes opened again, and Superman smiled. It was quite horribly bloody to see, but Luthor had never been a squeamish man. 

He heaved another painful-looking breath. "Thank God you're okay. When I saw The Joker had one of your krypto-bombs, I thought you must be...." The eyelids fluttered shut as Superman's ragged voice trailed off into nothing. 

Lex tilted his head in puzzlement. Stupid alien. It had been better when "Lex" was his dying word. Maybe he'd just tell everybody that it had been -- well, tell Mercy anyway. The public would-- 

Superman breathed and opened his eyes again. Lex's gaze was suddenly riveted on those eyes -- the eyelashes, to be specific. There was something strangely familiar about them. They fluttered closed, then open again, and Superman said, "One last favor?" The bloody grimace of a smile somehow had a ghost of a sunny grin to it, and Lex's heart clenched in his chest. "It's the last one, Lex, I promise." The alien's voice trailed off in a hoarse whisper, and Lex bent closer so as to hear. 

"Who are you?" Lex asked, but Superman went on as if he hadn't heard. 

In a gluey, wet-sounding rasp, he said, "Dying wish. Wanted this for twenny yearssss...." 

With a sort of a convulsive heave, Superman threw an arm up and hooked his broken wrist around the back of Lex's neck. Lex wasn't quick enough to flinch away before the dying Kryptonian pulled his face down to his own and kissed him. Panic gave way to disgust, at the blood and concrete dust, and then to astonishment as the kiss took hold. Lex found he was kissing back, kissing Superman passionately, and then the passion gave way to panic again as Superman went completely limp and still beneath him, falling back into unconsciousness, or perhaps finally death. 

Lex weaseled out from under the heavy inert arm and stood up as coolly as he could. Mercy and a team were picking their way over the rubble towards him. The football players still had The Joker at their mercy. The lip of the crater would very likely have shielded that surreal little clinch from everyone's view. 

8*8*8*8*8*8*8  
*8*8*8*8*8*8* 

" _He wrote_ , ` _I found him_ , _nearly dead_ , _buried in that clown_ ' _s carnage_. _He looked up at me and knew me_. _He called me by name_. _I took him home and made him mine_.' _I_ ' _ll leave the details of the_ ` _making_ ' _to your imagination_." 

_Cameron looked a little flushed_. _House knew she_ ' _d read every word._

* * *

The fuller account of the incident at Arrowhead Stadium, as Lex wrote it: 

* * *

The air around me was thick with dust -- concrete and kryptonite and plain Missouri dirt. There was no smoke; it hadn't been that kind of a bomb. 

Priority One had been accomplished -- the Metropolis Sharks had The Joker, and he wasn't going anywhere but Belle Reve. 

Priority Two was in-process -- LexCorp Search and Rescue were providing aid and comfort, and my PR people were spinning crap into gold at top speed. 

Priority Three lay on the ground before me. 

He opened his eyes. I'd thought him dead. 

"Lex," he whispered. 

Not Luthor? I bent down to hear him. 

"One last favor," he rasped. 

Favor? "What?" 

"Closer," he begged. 

The dust caught in my chest as I breathed, and I bent closer. 

He kissed me. 

To say I was shocked would be inaccurate. It felt -- I felt -- I drew back and realized I'd seen him like this before, once, beautiful and suffering, like a Renaissance saint drawn from a street whore. "One last favor" -- this was Clark Kent. It had to be. 

And he was unconscious again. 

The dust and rubble concealed us; Mercy was on her way. I could do with him whatever I desired. 

Whatever I decided to do with him, that costume had to go. 

As I stripped him, I wondered, and in my heart I raged. Why had I never seen it before? I tore away that burnt and garish garment, revealing the planes of his chest, those massive arms, the long, long thighs -- all these I had indeed seen before, and they were changed only as the years had changed them. I hesitated at the red briefs, made less ridiculous by the nudity, burns and blood surrounding them, but this was _my right_ , after all these years, all these troubles, all these pains. I ripped them from his body, and a sigh escaped me -- not his last secret, no, but at least one more. His cock lay sleeping in its nest of black curls, uncut, like my own in nothing but its generous size. 

"Lex?" 

I did not startle at Mercy's voice; I was well within my rights in all that I was doing. This was mine. 

"Gather him up," I ordered. "Bring the remains of the suit, too." 

"Lab Number Seven?" she asked. 

"Metropolis penthouse," I murmured, gazing. 

"Lex, that's four hours," Mercy said, in the matter-of-fact tone she always used when I'd gone mad. 

I blinked and looked at her. "Lab Seven, then. Leave Hope in charge here. Joker to Belle Reve _without fail!_ No one steals what's mine! And have them continue the PR activities -- Search and Rescue, emergency aid, get the accountants on the donations thing." 

"Of course." They put him in a body bag for transport, and as Mercy worked the zipper she frowned. "Isn't this Clark Kent?" 

I think I frightened her with my laughter. 

* * *

They dumped him at the lab, and I dismissed them to rejoin LexCorp's public-spirited efforts at the stadium. If Mercy stayed, at least she stayed out of sight. 

He hadn't regained consciousness -- not surprising, considering all the kryptonite ammunition my people were packing. I opened the bag and stroked that fine-grained inhuman skin, memorizing the way the contact made my ring glow, and traced all the veins of his body in green and black. They weren't quite like human veins, but it wasn't something that would easily give him away. 

I sealed up my ring in its lead box and rolled him out onto the floor. I'd calculated the penetration of the explosion's nebulized kryptonite shards at about half an inch through a layer of clothing, and three times that for bare Kryptonian flesh. His feet, parts of his back, and his genitals had been protected by two layers -- they looked sunburned, whereas most of the rest of his body was beginning to blister, and his exposed face and hands were additionally coloring up as if deeply bruised. His ass, on the other hand, protected as it had been by three layers of cloth, was still absolutely perfect. I couldn't help caressing it, and this finally brought him around with a groan. 

I rolled him over. His eyes were open, bloodshot red and green and black. His lungs would be even worse. There was blood on his face. 

"Lex," he choked out. 

"You can see?" I asked, just curious. 

"A little." He coughed, a thick, wet cough that brought up nothing. "I was afraid The Joker'd killed you." 

"No. He only robbed me. He'll pay." I rested my hand against Clark's heart and watched him pass out again, and I realized something. 

I could never have done this. 

I'd designed the kryptonite bomb; I'd built it and tested it, but I would never have really used it. It had worked perfectly, everything absolutely as predicted, but I would have found reason after reason, excuse after excuse. I would have always put it off, even before I knew that I knew who he really was. 

I could never kill him. 

I'd be damned if I'd let The Joker do it. 

I dragged him to the safety shower and turned it on full blast, to sluice away whatever kryptonite had yet to fully lodge itself beneath his skin. I fetched the carboy of surfactant solution that I'd developed for use in case of lab accidents with the kryptonite. (Based on the size of the crowd, The Joker's stadium blast would likely cause six to eight "meteor mutants", half of whom would go insane, and four to six cases of cancer -- among the reasons that the Super Bowl had never figured into _my_ plans.) I intubated Clark, and pumped the solution into his lungs. Since I knew he couldn't drown, I left it twice as long as I would have for a mortal man, then pulled the tube and rolled him face down. 

Spilled surfactant slicked my hands as I straddled Clark's hips and kneaded his back to force the fluid out of his lungs. It glowed as it flowed from his mouth and nose. The pounding water worked it into a green froth before washing it down the drain, to the lab's waste containment unit. 

I noticed the kryptonite dust from my filthy clothing was turning to poisonously glowing green mud and painting itself across Clark's thighs. It washed away while I stripped, though, leaving the skin only a little worse than before. 

Nude, it was harder to get the purchase I needed to work the fluid out from his lungs. Would a creature that couldn't drown even have a useful cough reflex in this situation, or was I going to have to force every ounce of this stuff out myself? 

Finally, after fifteen exhausting minutes of roughly pummeling his back under the stinging spray, Clark started to cough. I sat back and let him. It gave me leisure to notice how slippery we'd both become, all over, how warm he was between my thighs -- warmer than the water still pounding down upon our naked bodies. 

"You're mine," I said. 

He coughed some more. I felt the vibrations of it all through my legs, my groin (my heart?). 

"You're mine," I repeated, inaudible beneath the sound of falling water. 

He got his elbows under his chest (his wrist was still bent wrong and useless) and coughed more poison out of his lungs. The posture brought his slick, wet, warm, perfect ass into contact with me. I couldn't help rubbing along the cleft. 

Unexpectedly, he pushed back up against me. I moaned, and leaned down over his back, gripping his shoulders hard, heedless of the joint I knew had been dislocated in the blast, the skin that had been blistered through the rips in that fucking outfit. 

"Mine," I growled, right into his ear. "Mine, you sonuvabitch, understand?" 

He moved against me, breathing hard, there on the tiles with the water pounding down on us. He spread his legs a little. I got my knees between them and spread them more. I could feel his heart beating, rabbit fast against my chest. I could see it in the blood vessel below his ear. 

He started coughing again, but I didn't care. I shoved roughly against his cleft, and caught, and slid again. In. Home. God, he was a furnace inside, and tight -- I never would have risked my dick to that alien vise grip if I'd been in my right mind, but I hadn't been there in a long, long time. 

I thrust into him, again and again, groaning "Mine" with every stroke. 

He stopped coughing, caught his breath, and then turned his head to where he could just look me in the eye. "I've never been anyone else's," he said raggedly. 

I reared back and down and bit him, on the back of the neck, just at the line of demarcation where the fucking cape and tights had stopped protecting his skin. I bit until I felt the blood come. It tasted almost like human blood. 

He gasped, and whimpered, and came, clenching and spasming around my cock, and took me with him. 

I thought that I might die, that we both might, but it was just sex, with Clark, with Superman. He struggled a little beneath me, and rolled over onto his back, and I slipped out. He was shivering, and I noticed the water had gone cold. I turned it off. The surfactant had rinsed away, as had most of the blood and ejaculate. I got a better grip on his shoulder from the front, and jerked it back into the socket. It wouldn't have worked if he hadn't been so weakened from the kryptonite, and so relaxed from the orgasm. 

"Thanks," he choked out, past his chattering teeth. 

"You're welcome," I said, the most surreal statement of the day, perhaps. "Let's get you dried off and into bed. We'll splint that wrist, and get some sunlight on you." I got up to go for some towels, but he put a shaking hand on my bare hip and stopped me. 

"You're mine, too, you know." 

I knew. 


End file.
